John’s in an office building - Lestrade’s called him over. Some sort of murder, and… well, it seems like something’s happened and they’d like him to come take a look. John’s fairly sure that they’re just hoping Sherlock has rubbed off on him and that he’ll be able to solve the crime with no problems. John doubts it’s going to work like that.
He does wonder why Lestrade calls. It’s the first time, really, in a couple of months. He hears a strain in Lestrade’s voice, but passes it off as stress. The man must really be working hard to even call John in. So he goes, of course, since they’re friends and he really needs a distraction right now. Surgery is so very dull and life is so very Sherlock-less. So what is he to do but go?
That’s how he got here. But that’s not important. The important thing is that there is a painfully familiar silhouette. John thinks, ‘This is it, I’ve finally gone mad.’ Except he hasn’t. He approaches slowly, licks his lips once. Somehow his mouth has gone completely dry. The figure in front of him seems slimmer than before (if that was even possible), but the unruly mess of curls is still there. The man in front of him turns around, confronting him with that same hawkish gaze. Almost simultaneously, the name that was forming dies on John’s lips.